


Domesticity

by catc10



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Feminization, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catc10/pseuds/catc10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ONCE UPON A TIME I WROTE STUFF FOR THE ST_XI_KINK_MEME AND THIS WAS SOME OF IT.<br/>Prompt/fill here: http://st-xi-kink-meme.livejournal.com/8704.html?thread=7773952#t7773952</p>
<p>Pavel Chekov is the adorable housewifu. It is him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Whom I was Referring

The chance to go shopping for _real_ food was like heaven.

Replicating ingredients to cook with was great and all, but really, it just didn’t have the same flavor as something grown in the ground, no matter _what_ scientists and replicator engineers said. In days of old it was said that cafeteria food was never so good as your mother’s or wife’s, and Chekov liked to agree, so when Kirk gleefully told the ensign of their upcoming stop on a agricultural hub planet under human care, _famous_ for its outdoor produce markets, Chekov made quick and decisive plans to go shopping with his captain.

Thus, the pair were dressed in civilian clothes, with honest-to-god _wicker_ baskets, picking out greens and meats for their loving ‘husbands’.

Kirk had on a pair of comfortable denim pants and pale blue button down, a dark rectangular half-apron strung across his hips to carry credit chips and ID. The blonde was pulling out tomato-equivalents and inspecting them before discarding them or adding them to his basket. Chekov, next to him, was inspecting an earth-origin celery stalk for cleanliness. The air was fresh with the smell of dirt and sunshine and spring or summer, and the noise of a crowd was familiar and comforting.

“Your dress looks nice,” Kirk said, as they paid for their items and moved on to the next wooden farmer’s stall to look at potatoes of various types and planetary origins. Chekov grinned and skipped forward to twirl and show off the pretty thing his man had bought for him, light fabric of it billowing out and displaying pale, shapely legs nicely. The dress was thin, but sturdy slate blue linen, which covered the navigator from collarbone to knee. It had a sash belt just beneath his breastbone and cute, decorative buttons in the shapes of little stars. Most of it was covered by an apron that haltered over his neck and wrapped around his waist, in the same dark blue as the cardigan swamping his frame and making the entire ensemble all the more bohemian and, in the captain’s eyes, adorable.

“Spock is a lucky, _lucky_ man,” he said.

Chekov giggled femininely, kicking up one booted foot, “What is Uhura’s loss, is my gain, _Keptin_!”

“Sure is, kiddo, sure is.”

It would have been hard to mistake Chekov for anything but what he was, a male housewife; and it probably would have shocked the poor farmers that smiled at the boy to know he held a day job as the head navigator to starfleet’s flag ship. “What are you going to be making for the doctor today, Keptin?”

Kirk smiled lazily, “Tomato basil chicken, in a bed of couscous or rice. A good garden salad, too. Some light wine to drink, probably. But while I’m here I want to get a good few gallons of milk. Len hates the replicated stuff. And you for Spock?”

“I was going to get some vegetables for a veggie loaf experiment, some exotic lettuces for his lunch salad, and any fruits that catch my attention. I need to find flour for making bread, however. He liked it last time I did, and making bread means he can have more bread variety.”

Kirk nodded, “If you make some rolls, make a few extra and I’ll buy some off of you. Breads were never my specialty, but Len loves them.”

“Will do!”

They wandered the market, buying veggies, cheeses, flour, spices, fruits, and in the case of Kirk one butcher-paper wrapped package of chicken breasts, leaving with heavy baskets and bright smiles just as the sun was reaching its zenith. They beamed back to the enterprise happy, and Chekov popped a mint sweety into Mister Scott’s mouth as they passed him by to leave the transporter room.

Chekov input the code to Spock’s officer’s quarters hardly looking, more focused on what else he had a mind to do today for the other. He wanted to dust the main living area, and vaccum all the carpets, the bathroom needed scrubbing, and all the glass ought to be polished. He could throw a load of laundry into the refresher and have it folded, and probably do all of that before starting on bread for dinner, take a bath, then finishing dinner just in time for Spock to get off of his shift.

Grinning, Chekov set his basket on the tiny kitchen’s counter, and set to work.

Given that life on space in a ship barely a few hundred yards long tended to be crowded, the quarters were on the smaller side. An apartment in San Fransico’s downtown area could often be bigger, so the work wasn’t too difficult to complete, and Chekov let his mind wander as he set to it.

He wondered what his favorite Russian drama shows were doing in their new seasons. They weren’t overly cerebral shows, oft plagued with unrealistic and outrageous plots, but that made them fun, even when Spock didn’t get them. They wouldn’t be data-beamed to him for several months yet, though. The ship was too far out from earth to get the live-broadcast, but his lovely friend Ivana was kind enough to record them for him so he could watch them earlier than six months past their release dates.

He wondered how Spock’s day was going, and if he’d liked the ginger and citrus salad Chekov had made with replicated ingredients. It had been a simple recipe his mother had sent him that she had found on some page or another of the sub-space web, and if Spock liked it, Chekov would be sure to make it again. Chekov loved to cook, it reminded him of spending time in the kitchen with his mother, because she could spare no other time with him between working to provide for their family and taking care of his younger sisters. His papa had been a wonderful man when he’d been alive, but sickness took him from them when Chekov was still a boy, and his mother did not want her eldest boys to work, saying to them that education was much more important. It was hard work, to take care of everyone, but she did it.

Chekov had admired her from the moment his little heart could understand the sacrifices she made for them, and though the understanding was feeble at best to his young mind, it was there, and Pavel, only nine years old, decided that he wanted to be _just_ like her.

Of course, Pavel _was_ a genius, however, and his mother seemed much more interested in that than his wish to be a provider like she, so he bent to her wishes, attending private schools and conservatories until finding himself at Starfleet for a final year of school before rocketing away in space. It wasn’t necessarily the life Pavel would have chosen, he had to wear _pants_ for one thing, something the conservatories in Russia never seemed to mind that he never did, but it was a good life that made his aging mother happy. And it did not matter that he wanted to give care to his boyfriend/lover/’husband’ when he was off duty, cooking and cleaning for them. Just so long as he played at being a good officer when in his command-track golds and sitting on the bridge, holding the conn until his friends and Spock came back from whatever harrowing adventure Spock could relate to him over one of Pavel’s nearly home-cooked meals.

Pavel hummed quietly as he made two large dough-balls from the flour he’d gotten at the market with Kirk. He dampened clean dishtowels and draped them over the dough, and left to let them rise. Pavel could stand to wash up after cleaning, and Spock wasn’t due back for a while, yet.

Chekov stripped out of his dress and apron, cardigan having been abandoned as soon as he’d walked into the hotter rooms Spock preferred to keep, and he dropped the articles into a basket receptacle for un-fresh clothes. Dressed only in his cotton panties, Chekov stepped into the freshly scrubbed bathroom and into a steaming shower. He decided that Spock was not going to lure him into a conversation about theoretical trans-warp beaming physics tonight, as interesting as the topic was (Pavel _was_ a genius), today had been too perfectly domestic to ruin it on ‘shop talk’. Spock liked Pavel’s housewife leanings, enough so that Uhura’s lack of them eventually led to their professionally stiff break-up, so the teenager wasn’t all that worried about finding something to distract the half-Vulcan with.

He soaked for almost forty minutes, long even for him, and snickered wickedly, sure that Spock would not approve if he learned, and equally sure that the other would only raise one eyebrow, make an indecipherable comment on waste water, and pout in that uniquely Vulcan style that sent the poor captain into fits of girlish giggles, even if he was on the bridge. Spock let Pavel have his indulgences with the barest of fuss nowadays, though in the beginning things had gotten rough every week or so as Pavel’s feelings got hurt any time Spock reacted to something in a perfectly logical _wrong_ way.

Finished with his bath, and emerging, hair the scent of his clean rain shampoo and skin taking on his desert flower soap, Pavel dried and dressed in another skirt, a casual number he loved to lounge in. It was a sand-colored peasant skirt, four ‘tiers’ of gathering ruffle, that perfectly displayed the curve on the top of his rear and fell to his ankles. It never failed to make Pavel feel like he was dressed for a renaissance fair. He wore it with a simple pale blue blouse that matched his eyes. He dabbed on mascara and chapstick and returned to the kitchen.

There he put the large loaves in the oven and set about making a good potato and lentil style soup. The soup base was milk and potatoes, with various vegetables and cheeses and herbs for flavor. Smiling with satisfaction, Chekov smelled at the dish with happy anticipation. His husband was going to be so proud! He might even turn up a corner of his mouth! The oven dinged, and Pavel removed the breads, using a serrated knife to cut out their tops to make bread bowls. He shredded the hard tops and fluffy insides into the soup, then glanced at the time piece.

_Good! Just enough time!_

Pavel set the table and finished tossing a salad just in time for Spock to enter the living area, which by then surely smelt of cheese and potatoes.

“Spock! Welcome back!” Chekov said, very carefully not saying ‘home’. Spock had not taken to that very kindly the first time Chekov had done it. “I’ve made some dinner, bread bowl soup!” He put the filled bread bowls onto the table, comfortably close on the small cafe sized piece of furniture, bolted to the floor. “Here, let me take that, you sit,” the teen said, taking a small stack of PADDs from the science officer. He paused, and gently brushed his fingers over Spock’s, smiling warmly at their higher temperature into his blankly stoic stare.

Spock twisted his wrist slightly, to catch the pale digits with his own. “Good evening, Pavel, I see your day of rest was well.”

“It most _certainly_ was! So no scientific talk tonight, okay? I will get frustrated and today was so nice that I would hate to ruin it.”

“Logical. Proceed.”

Spock’s fingers disentangled themselves with what the ensign could only deduce was a hint of hesitation, and Pavel disappeared into the bedroom to drop the PADDS in their specified cubby holes over the desk before returning to the table.

Spock politely waited for Pavel to sit and say a prayer before they both took up their utensils to eat, after a few silent bites, Pavel took up conversation. “The planet we are over right now has very good farmer’s markets, as I got to see today. The keptin and myself bought many things for cooking there this morning.”

“Including this evening’s meal, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“I see. It is most satisfactory,” Spock said, with the half smirk and quirked eyebrow of approval.

“Thank you! It was not a hard meal to prepare! Speaking of, your lunch today…?”

“Also satisfactory, though less so than this soup. I find more hearty flavors are palatable, but I see how citrus would be agreeable now and again.”

“So I should make it again?”

“Yes.”

“But not often?”

“Not too often, no.”

Pavel smiled, blowing on his chunky soup to cool it before taking the bite.

“And the rest of your day?” Spock asked.

“Oh, I just made sure the dust in the room would not bother you.”

“My allergies are quite controllable with medication, Pavel.”

“I know. But it is something I like to do for you.”

There was silence for a while longer as the meal began to wind down, delicious as it was. Then, Spock spoke.

“I …My day was of the normal routine. Outside of one yeoman suffering sudden family emergency, nothing outside of the ordinary occurred.”

Chekov blinked, it wasn’t like Spock to put forth little nothings about his day, but…it was awfully nice to hear, so Pavel, gathering up the dishes from the table, pat at the other’s cheek with the warmest smile he could muster, “That’s good, then, _moya lyubov_ ’, very good. This ship sees so much chaos that it is good to see a day of rest.”

“Yes. Very.”

Spock did not speak again, and Pavel took his time cleaning the dishes before joining Spock on his small couch. Spock was fingering the blue cardigan.

“You wore this today?”

“Er…yes, with the blue sun dress and black suede boots. I’m sorry that I did not ask permission first, but you had already left for your shift.”

“It is fine.”

Just as the teenager was sure that it probably _wasn’t_ fine, because Spock was tense in all the wrong ways for it to _actually be_ fine, Spock spoke again.

“It is more than fine. I enjoy the sight of you in my sweaters, and my shirts. I find myself wishing I had seen you before you had changed. Pavel?”

“Er…yes, Spock?”

“Are you happy with me?”

Pavel sat up, clearly this was to be a serious conversation. “Very. You do not judge me for being so radically feminine, nor do you hurt my feelings intentionally. You are smart, and handsome, and brave.” Folding his hands into a knot on his knees, Pavel continued, “There are many things that I like about you, I like that I can speak about physics with you just as easily as cooking. I like that you do not mind when I make up new recipes, or clean your rooms for no reason. I like that you will help me when I ask, without scorn or patronization. Many things. May I…ask why?”

“I was speaking with Lieutenant Scott this afternoon. At one point in the conversation, I referred to you as my wife, and though I corrected myself, the term caused great warmth in me.”

Pavel gaped, and nervously chuckled, “Is that all? That is fine. I call you my ‘husband’ all the time! If no one takes it seriously, it can do no harm, and I often act this way, do I not? As your wife? I cook and clean,” he said, waving an arm around the room, “I make you things with my crochet, I even rub your back and feet and fetch you drinks when we are reading together! So this is not serious, no?”

“On the contrary, Pavel, I find this very serious.”

Pavel swallowed thickly, a lump knotting up his throat even as he did so.

“I was so warmed by calling you this, that I did so again while on the bridge, and even though you and I are not so much as betrothed, not one member of the crew did not know to whom I was referring.”

There was silence, and Pavel did not know how to or what to respond with.

“What are you saying, Spock?”

A super-hot hand gently came to rest over Pavel’s, cupping over the youngster’s knee so chastely that Pavel could not stop the flush reddening his cheeks.

“I should like to know if you would marry me, Pavel.”

Stunned, Pavel could only manage a thin nothing-sound.

Spock would not meet his eyes, “You need not decide immediately. I only hope that should the answer be in the negative that you not also immediately terminate our current arrangement.”

“Spock, we have been dating for only eight months.”

“I know that this is considered a short duration for courtship.”

“And I am not yet even nineteen years old.”

“I understand the social implications of our age difference.”

“And you mind neither?”

“I fail to see the logic in allowing our lives and our decisions for happiness to be dictated by the comfort zones of others.”

“I see.”

“Please think about—”

“I will.”

“…what?”

“I will marry you.”

“I will inform the captain.”

“Will you want a Vulcan ceremony? I don’t think my mother would allow me to get married without a proper earth-style ceremony, but you are part Vulcan, so I would hate –”

“Pavel?”

“Yes?”

“In all honesty, I would prefer it if at this moment you were to get up and get dressed for bed; for I find that there is much time to think upon the wedding, but only one night to celebrate this moment in.”

Pavel grinned, and leaned over to kiss his _fiancé_ on the mouth.

“The silk teddy or the satin night shift?”

“Mmmm…” Spock made a great show (for a Vulcan) of mulling it over, “…the teddy.”


	2. Husband and Less!Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KirkxBones POV here

Jim was just finishing off the last of his dinner when Leonard came stumbling in from work. Though the day had been relatively quiet for everyone aboard the USS Enterprise, doctors still worked long shifts, that, when lacking excitement of trauma and disaster, were nothing short of _hellishly_ boring. Sympathetically, the blonde rose from his seat on the couch and laid his plate down to guide his weary lover to the place he’d just vacated.

“Hey, Lenny, boring day?”

“Worse. Inventory. That last Romulan encounter, and the three disasters you call away missions before it, made for tough goings on our medical supply list, and lemme tell you: you are _not_ endearing yourself to my medical higher-ups!”

“Oh, _poor baby_!” Jim giggled and rubbed a few comforting circles into the doctor’s shoulders. “I kept dinner warm for you, real food from Engei!”

“The planet we’re hovering over like vultures?”

Jim swatted at Leonard’s bangs, “Yes! They’re famous for being farmers, Len, and I already ate, so I can tell you that this place’s eats are great!”

“JIM! You have allergies to pesticides! Let me look you over!”

Jim had to forcibly manhandle Len back to the couch when the other took a dive for his spare medical kit, hidden in the shuffle of _stuff_ that covered a desk Len did _not_ let Jim touch, for fear that the other would playfully ‘misplace’ some important document. Once was enough. “It’s all organic, Len! Lenny! _Bones_ , the food is good, and I’m not swelling up or going into anaphylactic shock or anything! I’m fine, see?” He held up his hands and stuck out his tongue and grinned salaciously.

Muttering curses, the dark-haired man tugged at the button down his lover wore, which still held the scent of dirt and sunshine it had soaked in that morning more than ten hours previous. He sat, and let Jim bring him a plate laden with food, which smelled like home in ways Jim did his best to appreciate.

“Tell me, Jim, why is it that you’ll eat any shitty greasy lump the replicator can give you over a replicated salad, but when you cook the idea of deep frying something makes you blanch with disgust?”

Jim kicked at Leonard’s shin lightly, “It’s style! Shitty greasy food is _supposed_ to be shitty! _My_ food is not! Now eat!”

Happily, Leonard complied, and did not speak again until his plate was clean of chicken and rice and salad alike. Jim wordlessly handed him a glass of something pale and bubbly, which Len quickly drained. Jim refilled both his own and Leonard’s glasses, then sat across from him on the spacious black couch that took up a whole corner of his captain’s quarters, which were, to Jim endless delight, spacious. Especially for a ship. It even had eight foot ceilings! Practically unheard of anywhere except the bridge and engineering! He took up Len’s booted feet in hand and set to work getting some of the ache and strain out of his boyfriend’s body.

Stripping the doctor first of shoes, then socks, Jim started a decisive and firm foot rub.

“Uuuhhhg…You have precisely _three years_ to stop that!”

“Still ticklish?”

Len kicked out gently, “Yeah, and don’t you dare. My day was probably worse than yours!”

“Probably,” Jim agreed, chuckling. “I got to spend the morning shopping, the afternoon lounging and the evening cooking. How about you?”

“Inventory, Inventory, five-minute bull-shit break, Inventory.”

“Didn’t you eat lunch?”

“Stupidity puts me off my appetite.”

Jim sneered and pouted at the same time, though a trick of light and devilry that was all the captain’s own, “I should start making lunches for you the way Pavel does for Spock; you might actually eat them, then.”

“Oooh, that _reminds_ me! Guess what _I_ overheard on the bridge today!” Len settled further into the couch, teasing hazel eyes twinkling as their insane blue counterparts shimmering in childlike curiosity with half the innocence, “I popped in to give my reports around fourteen hundred, and Spock happened to mention Pavel while I was there, giving Rand my PADD.”

“And? What’d he say?”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t so much what he was _saying_ that was interesting…”

“ _Le-en_!” Jim swat at the other, who swat right back and soon they were in a full-on slap war, wrestling themselves off the couch and onto the floor, barely missing the metal coffee table. Jim squirmed onto his stomach and belly crawled to the armchair, used to haul himself up even as Len started to spank his ass, which was, to put it plainly, just _not fair_ , and _totally cheating_.

“Ooohh! _Len-ny!_ ”

“Ooo- _wha_ -at, baby?” Len mocked back.

“Bastard!”

Using superior weight and strength, god did Jim love to be reminded of the power in Len’s arms, Jim was pulled back to the ground, where Len continued to lightly smack at his bottom and hips until Jim, held down at the wrists pulled high over his head, went limp in surrender with a grin.

Laughing, a tonal, if _not_ melodious sound, Len squirmed chest-to-chest with Jim, who took in the other’s sharp smell of antiseptic as though it were an ocean breeze. “As I was saying, it wasn’t specifically what Spock was talking about that was interesting. It was what he _said_. He called Pavel his _wife_.”

“Bullshit!”

“True to god!”

Jim shoved his way up into a sitting position, and shoved the brunette until he could curl into the other’s lap right there on his living room floor, chin digging into a blue-clad shoulder. “You’re bullshitting me! Spock Mr. That-statement-is-illogical called Pav his _wife?_ ”

“He did! No one mentioned it, but Rand was _grinning_ , so I’m assuming that he’d done it once already, and I probably missed the first one.”

Jim started laughing hard enough to nearly topple them over, body rolling with the force of glee his laughter, muffled under both his hands, couldn’t express.

“ _Jim_ , don’t you realize what this means?”

Jim calmed only enough to listen.

“Oh lordy, Jim, Spock is getting engaged to Pavel!”

For one moment, Jim was literally shocked into silence.

And the next, he was _shrieking_ down the hallway in search of Gaila.

_People had to be in the know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of went wonky on characterization here...sorry...


	3. All Bets are Off!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Hikaru shows up...

Pavel stepped out of Spock’s quarters as quietly as he could, grin still stretching his lips wide, even with the pain of walking around after last night, a beautiful burn that shot up his spine with every step and spread his grin ever wider. His dress, after having spent a night on the floor, was rumpled in a way Pavel otherwise would have never allowed (it was improper, and his mother wouldn’t have approved), as was his blouse, and furthermore, there were several love bites scattered across his skin. Two were in the usual go-to area of his neck, one peeked over the top of his skirt, and, more unusual, two had been drawn forth on the delicate insides of his wrists. There were more beneath his clothes that even the _thought_ of sent Pavel stumbling into walls with delirious shivers, and Pavel, disheveled, barefoot, and giddy with lack of anything resembling sleep, made his way back to his and Hikaru’s shared quarters.

Halfway there, Chekov had half a mind to go back and retrieve his panties, but really, it felt like too much effort. All of Pavel’s care that morning had gone into preparing a simple fruit salad for Spock’s lunch, the creation of which Spock observed with half lidded eyes from over his breakfast before asking quite plainly if Pavel would please wipe up the fluid dripping down the insides of his legs, it was very distracting, thank you.

Pavel grinned some more and stepped into his room.

This room was even smaller looking than it was. It had enough space for two twin beds with two nightstands between them that flanked a door to a shared bathroom that connected Sulu’s and his room to Kirnecki and Young’s. At the foot of either bed was a small desk with shelves and drawers, and small closets. Pavel had long ago agreed with Hikaru that he could use the Asian’s closet space for his nice clothes if Hikaru could use every spare inch of floor space for plants. Currently, Hikaru was seated on the edge of his bed, tying his shoelaces.

“Last night go well, Pasha?”

Pavel blinked slowly at his unflappable friend, shifting from bare foot to bare foot.

“Very. Hikaru?”

“Hmm?”

“If I tell you a secret, can you keep it until the official announcement is made?”

Hikaru glanced up and took in Pavel’s less-than immaculate appearance. “…?”

“He proposed to me, Hikaru!” a beat. “And I said yes!”

Hikaru’s face slowly broke out into a smile, “Well I’ll be damned! Congratulations, Pasha.”

Pavel, upon hearing someone else affirm what had just occurred to him, broke down into the squealing shrieks he’d been unaware of holding in. He danced on naked feet and waved his hands over his face, going short of breath. “Oh my, Hikaru! What am I going to do with myself! I don’t know a _thing_ about weddings!”

“Hahaha, sure you do, Pasha! And we’ll all help; in fact, I think you’re going to have to pay the captain _not_ to help!”

“But I would _love_ for Jim to help! If we have the wedding on the ship, he will have to preside, after all!”

Hikaru laughed and it sounded like anyone else’s chuckle, “So you _have_ been thinking about it!”

Flushing a pale rose across his cheeks and neck, Pavel smirked, “All little girls dream about their wedding, when I went to Starfleet the dream changed accordingly!”

The pair laughed at themselves and Hikaru opened his arms for the teenager to fall into with a sighing excitement. “I wonder if I will be able to have flowers for the wedding, and what kind of dress I should wear…”

Hikaru rocked Pavel for a moment before standing and retrieving the ensign’s uniform from an under-bed storage drawer.

“Er…Hikaru, if you do not mind…will you hand me some panties, too? I…forgot mine in Spock’s room.”

Hikaru passed over a racy lavender thong with a smirk, ducking the tossed pillow-retaliation.

***

Both Hikaru and Pavel stepped onto the bridge in their proper golds just in time to relieve their gamma-shift counterparts. The shift was looking to be a boring one, the ship still quietly hovering over Engei, not scheduled to leave for another two days, barring an emergency. Rand was at their side as soon as the turbo lift opened.

“Is it true?”

“Is what true, Rand?” asked Hikaru.

Scoffing, the blonde turned to Pavel, “Did Spock really propose?!”

Chekov blinked pale blue eyes, “Yes, but…how did _you_ —?”

“Damn!”

To the right, one of the communications technicians snorted, and a weapons specialist whooped.

Rand gave a glaring pout in their direction, “I just lost thirty credits. Congrats, ensign. He’s a catch.”

Nodding, Chekov thanked her, and nervously wiped his palms across his pants legs. “Yes, yes, thank you very much, but—”

“CHEKOV!”

“AH! Ah-uh-captain!”

“Captain if I may speak with you privately?”

“Hey, Spock! You proposed, we’re gonna have a wedding, and now it’s time for cake?”

Spock did not look impressed. “Captain, you must sign the fraternization forms, sections ninety eight through one hundred and twelve, process and oversee marriage counseling, sign a marriage license, and also –”

“Yes yes yes, _details_ , Spock! And what is our agreement about details?”

“We hold no standing agreement about ‘details’ Captain.”

“What is our _norm_ concerning details, then?”

“…I see. I will take care of the papers, sir.”

“Good man. And congratulations, you lucky, _lucky_ man!”

“Thank you, Captain. May I make a query?”

Kirk looked up from where he was making a show of leering at Chekov playfully, “Of course!”

“I had not yet informed you of our recent betrothal—”

“Hehehehe…Oh, Spock. _Details!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter this time.


	4. Stresses Me Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mama!Chekov is not happy, and when Mama!Chekov is not happy...

Chekov rubbed at his temples wearily. Between working his regular shifts, working extra shifts when called for, keeping up with the celebratory meetings for drinks, keeping up with Spock’s absently-minded dalliances, and attempted to placate his mother over wedding plans, Chekov had just about the _worst_ headache he’d ever suffered—and worse, it was all mental, so McCoy’s generously offered hypos did zero good.

The eighteen year old sneezed at tiny clouds of dust, surprised at how sensitive a starship’s sterile environment made a nose even after only a little time in Space, and continued to dig through his things, sorting them and packing them away into boxes. Sniffing at and rubbing his nose, Chekov filled the box and popped a new one out of its flat, collapsed shape, and began to fill it with knick knacks and such paraphernalia that had filled his desk over the duration of the mission so far.

He and his mama had fought over the wedding, _again_. Mama was so happy to have Pavel married; she was entirely for the _idea_.

But she balked to think that if the wedding were to take place in due time, and on the Enterprise, as Pavel wanted, that she would not be there. Regulations kept civilian visitors off the ship during duty missions, and beyond that, it was unlikely that she’d be able to afford transporting herself to them without incurring a sizable amount of debt, even if she _were_ to receive ample help from well-wishing crew members, Pavel, and Spock. She tried to wax that Pavel had intentionally intended to keep her from attending, to which he replied that no, he would have another ceremony when the ship reached Earth again, really, Spock was budgeting for it!

But that wasn’t for another three years, she would say.

That’s why we can’t wait, he would answer.

But Pasha, I’m your mama! You would get married without me there? She’d reply.

I love you, but that’s too long, he’d say.

It could nearly be repeated by rote at this point, they’d had the same passively seething conversation so consistently over their regular messages, growing ever more blatantly hostile.

Cleaning was just about the only thing that made Pavel really relax these days. Spock’s rooms were impeccable. His navigation station could be used as a mirror. And for the first time since _ever_ there was no dirt on the floor of Chekov’s and Sulu’s shared quarters. But today, headache raging, it wasn’t working.

The teen hadn’t seen Spock in days. He made the other’s lunches before going to bed, woke up before him in the morning, and the days kept them too busy to be together when not on duty and completely professional as conduct demanded. He was hanging onto a thread of reason with as much of a grip as he could muster out of a tired mind, boxing up his things so that his move into Spock’s quarters would be a smooth transition.

Wiping dust from his eyes, and carefully wrapping up what could be done without for the next two weeks he’d still officially be in the double room with Sulu, Pasha didn’t even feel his hands shaking. Didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t even notice the cold, cold tears on his face.

He didn’t feel anything at all until hot hands, desert hands, were shaking him by the shoulders.

“—Pavel! Pavel! Respond!”

“S-spock, what’s wrong?”

“What has upset you, Pavel?”

“I am not upset.”

“I was under the impression that humans cried when upset, and you were not responding to my voice. I believe that you are upset about something, and I would hope you wish to share it with me that I might help you resolve the issue.”

Swallowing thickly, Pavel allowed the graceful digits of his half-vulcan science officer to wipe away salty tracks on his skin, “We also cry when we are happy,” he said.

There was a minute furrowing in Spock’s sharply angled brow, “You,” he stated, “are far from happy. What happened?”

“You could just see,” Pavel suggested, almost pathetically, with a fresh wash of tears dripping down onto his thighs, bared by the tiny pair of terrycloth shorts he would wear to bed if he weren’t sharing it with anyone that night. “You could look right into my head and know!”

Spock’s expression did not change, “I could, but I will not. Tell me.”

Pavel, shivering at the feel of hot hands cupping his neck, sending heat through his blood, down his chest and arms, curled forward into a science-blue shirt and cried in earnest. “My mama will not be at the wedding. I know it is not something we can change, but she is _so upset_ , dorogoi! She is a strong woman, and she gets angry when she is sad, and I do not _want_ to fight with my mama! She was so good to me when I was a child! Loved me when I was such a strange boy, wanting to wear skirts and play house! I do not want her to be angry with me, but I will not _wait_ to get married –our lives are too dangerous here in space.”

He sobbed like the child he could so often pretend he wasn’t, and for five minutes, cradled himself in Spock’s arms, allowing them to block out the world.

“I sense that this is not all, my little love.”

“Another thing we cannot change, Spock. I do not see you as often as I’d like, and I miss our conversations.”

“I do not understand, this we _can_ change, Pavel. I have control over the duty roster, all you needed to do was say that you wished for more of my time.”

Pavel chuckled with the last of his tears, “Spock, you assign duties logically. You put everyone in at the best fit. Such things are important to you, and I do not wish to compromise this just for my sake!”

“Your sake means quite a lot to me, Pavel. And there are multiple logical configurations of duty rosters. I had intended to rotate through each over a few months period, and I see little reason to keep this one if it upsets you so.” An embarrassed shifting, “And, I find that I have missed your company as well.”

Pavel smiled up to the bottom of Spock’s chin, Spock himself gazing forward, as if far into the distance, or perhaps deep into his own head. “There is a saying on Earth, that happy workers are good workers.”

“A most prudent philosophy.”

They sat for a moment longer, Pavel calming himself and dabbing his eye with a corner of his tee shirt. Spock cleared his thoat.

“I had come here intending to invite you to dinner in the mess.”

“I-I’m not dressed for it. Another time?”

“I will wait.”

Pavel nodded with a grateful smile, and slipped into the bathroom for a quick, five minute scrub in the sonic shower, just to get off remaining dust bunnies and cleaner fumes. He returned to the room naked, looking to Spock, sitting primly on Pavel’s bed, with pale lashes lowered and a sweet smile gracing his mouth. He wandered slowly to his closet, slowly pulling on his frilly-rumped panties, in a shockingly bright white. He also pulled on a thin woolen pullover, also in white, that clung like a second skin, covering him from collarbone to knuckles. He then padded to what had been Sulu’s closet and pulled a puffy mini-skirt from within, drawing it up his legs with all the grace ten years of mandatory gymnastics had given his youthful Russian body.

Two vinyl boots in bleach-white finished the ensemble, Pavel foregoing make up completely. Spock gave a barely there, Vulcan smile, and offered his arm to the ensign, and led them away to the mess.

Pavel ordered macaroni and cheese, some broccoli, and water, Spock had plomeek soup. Pavel tossed the broccoli _into_ his noodles, and they set down at an open table near the side wall.

For a moment, they were silent, eating quietly, hands clasped gently over the table top and resting between them. Pavel was flushing lightly, he could feel the buzz of warmth on his nose and cheeks, and he knew that public hand-holding was silly to Vulcans, and vaguely sexual. It was…not something they did often outside of the bedroom.

“I greatly enjoyed the salad you prepared for me two days ago, Pavel.”

“On Tuesday?”

“Yes. What was that lettuce with a red main stalk and green pointed edges?”

Pavel giggled, “Dandelion, and it’s not lettuce. It’s an edible Earth weed.”

Spock’s eyebrow quirked _high_. “It is my belief that exporting this particular plant to the Vulcan colony might be, in fact, a ludicrous business opportunity for the Earth economy.”

Pavel laughed outright, throwing back his head and jiggling his feet in glee, and his eyes were dancing with mirth upon returning to Spock’s ink black orbs.

“Thank you, Spock. I need time with you more than anything else at this moment, I think.”

“Not a problem, _t’hy’la_. Also, I will contact your mother. We will come to an agreement, and you will not need to worry over it any further.” He seemed to hesitate, “That is, if you find such a thing agreeable?”

Pavel squeezed the other’s hand where they were joined, “That, Spock,” he said, “would be _beyond_ wonderful!”

They spent the rest of their shared evening quietly discussing nothing of importance. A few physics theories that Scotty had Pavel helping with, some new chemical compound Spock’s assistant science techs were discovering, what specifically Spock would care to have for lunch over the next week, and maybe, _just maybe_ , if they’d really, maybe, _might not be joking_ about having Jim preside over their ceremony.

_Maybe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets to the almost-drama of the fluffy-fic, and also the last of what I have pre-written. Whether or not it will continue past this, I have no idea. This was originally written in 2010, just about two years ago. Ugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the ST_XI_Kink_Meme, I promise I'm the original author and not someone who just happens to use the same screen-name.


End file.
